WolfAlpha! Simon Is Pissy That He Has To Keep An Eye Over You For The Summer While Your Parents Are Gone,

⋆·˚ ༘ * PAUL LAHOTE HEADCANNONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

𐙚 childhood friends to lovers with paul

you were always his.

paul lahote has known you his entire life.

even as kids, he gravitated toward you, like some invisible force was always pulling him in your direction.

“you’re my best friend,” he told you when you were both seven, shoving a slightly crushed flower into your hands with a determined look. “forever.”

he didn’t know back then that he loved you—but he did. even before he understood what love was.

as you both grew up, paul started to notice things about you in ways that made his stomach tighten and his heart ache.

the way your hair caught the sunlight, the way your laugh echoed in his ribs, the way you touched his arm when you talked—fuck, it made his chest burn.

but you never looked at him the way he looked at you, and that killed him.

he forced himself to act normal, to hide the way his hands itched to touch you, the way his gaze lingered when you weren’t looking.

he would have given anything to be the one you turned to with soft, love-drunk eyes.

paul had to watch you date other guys. it nearly drove him insane.

he always put on a front—smirking, teasing you, acting like it didn’t gut him every time you mentioned some guy’s name.

“so, you and that asshole from school, huh?” he said one night, tossing a rock into the ocean, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. “didn’t think you had such bad taste.”

“shut up, paul,” you laughed, nudging him playfully. but he didn’t laugh.

because it wasn’t funny to him. it was hell.

but he stayed quiet. because what if telling you the truth meant losing you completely?

he could have kept his feelings buried forever if it weren’t for the night he saw you crying over some idiot who didn’t deserve you.

you had come to his house, eyes red, voice shaky, looking so fucking sad, and something in him just snapped.

“tell me who it is,” he said, voice dark and dangerous. “i’ll kill him.”

“paul—”

“tell me.”

you shook your head, wiping your eyes. “it doesn’t matter.”

didn’t matter? no, fuck that. it mattered more than anything.

he exhaled hard, running a hand over his face before muttering, “you deserve better.”

you huffed a watery laugh. “yeah? like who? you?”

his jaw locked. “yeah,” he said quietly, his hands shaking. “like me.”

it happened fast.

one second, you were teasing him, and the next, he was cracking open in front of you.

“do you even know how fucking hard it is?” he burst out suddenly, voice raw, desperate. “loving you like this?”

your breath hitched. “paul—”

“no.” he shook his head, stepping closer. “you don’t get it. i’ve loved you since we were kids. and every single day, i’ve had to watch you, knowing i’m not the one you want.”

his hands balled into fists, his breathing uneven. “i thought i could live with that. thought i could be okay just being your friend. but i can’t, y/n, i fucking can’t.”

his voice broke on the last word, and suddenly, you realized—he wasn’t just frustrated. he was in agony.

you hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear it until that moment.

until you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d die if you didn’t love him back.

“say something,” he whispered, voice barely holding together.

you swallowed hard. “i—i don’t know what to say.”

his breath shuddered. “then let me.”

and then his hands were on your face, gentle but desperate, pulling you in as if he had been starving for you his whole life.

the second your lips touched, it was over—all the years of yearning, all the nights spent lying awake thinking about what it would feel like to have you, hold you, be yours.

“god, finally” he groaned against your mouth, fingers gripping you like he’d never let go.

and he never would.

the kiss changed everything.

one second, paul was your best friend, and the next, he was your paul.

he didn’t let you go for a long time after that.

he held you so tight, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip even a little.

when you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted that,” he whispered, his fingers still tangled in your hair.

you let out a soft laugh, breathless. “i think i have some idea.”

“not funny.” his lips brushed yours again, barely there, but full of something achingly desperate. “i thought i was gonna go crazy wanting you like that.”

he didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

everything was the same, but also not.

paul still teased you like he always did, still tossed popcorn at you during movie nights, still wrestled you onto the couch playfully—

but now, when he pinned you down, his hands lingered. his lips brushed over your cheek before he let you go.

his eyes devoured you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to look at you like this.

and, oh, god, the touches—

he was constantly touching you.

his hand on your thigh when you sat together. his fingers tracing your knuckles. his arms pulling you into his chest like it was second nature.

one night, you caught him just staring at you, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists.

“what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

he exhaled hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “nothing.”

“paul.”

his eyes flicked to your lips, his entire body tensed, and then—

“i just really wanna kiss you again.”

paul had always been overprotective, but now? ten times worse.

if you so much as stumbled, he was there, hands gripping your arms, eyes full of pure panic.

“i’m fine, paul.”

“you almost died.”

“i tripped over a rock.”

“exactly.”

he hated the thought of anything happening to you. even the idea of losing you sent him into a downward spiral of pure terror.

one night, after a particularly bad nightmare, he woke up shaking, his arms around you too tight.

you stirred, sieepy. “paul?”

“just—just go back to sleep, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

but you didn’t miss the way his breath shuddered against your neck.

the next morning, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. when you finally pushed him on it, he sighed, rubbing his face.

“had a dream you were gone,” he admitted, voice quiet.

you softened instantly, reaching for him. he immediately pulled you in, burying his face in your neck.

“i can’t lose you,” he murmured, voice raw.

“you won’t.”

“promise me.” his grip on you tightened. “just—just promise me.”

paul was obsessed with you in a way he never tried to hide.

he could spend hours just watching you talk, completely mesmerized by every little thing you did.

“paul,” you teased one day. “you’re staring.”

“yeah?” his lips twitched. “and?”

“and it’s weird.”

he just grinned, reaching over to pull you onto his lap. “mm, you’ll get used to it, baby.”

he also loved reminding you that you were his.

if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way, paul was right there, an arm around your waist, pulling you against him.

“something you need?” he’d ask, voice low, deadly.

the guy would immediately back off, and paul would just smirk, satisfied, pressing a slow kiss to your neck.

“mine,” he’d murmur. “all mine.”

one night, you were lying on the beach together, his arms wrapped around you, the waves crashing in the distance.

you sighed, content. “crazy to think we were just kids running around here not that long ago.”

paul hummed, his fingers brushing over your arm absentmindedly. “not that crazy.”

“why?”

he exhaled softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “because i think i’ve been loving you since then.”

your heart stuttered. “paul—”

“no, i mean it.” he tightened his grip on you, his voice softer than usual. “i think… i think i’ve always been yours.”

you turned in his arms, looking up at him, your heart full.

“good,” you whispered, tracing a hand along his jaw. “because i’ve always been yours too.”

and paul just melted, pulling you into a slow, aching kiss—one that held years of longing, years of desperate, unspoken love finally set free.

paul isn’t subtle about how much he wants you to be his forever.

“you ever think about getting married?” he asks one night, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your skin.

“i—what?” you blink up at him, caught off guard.

his lips twitch, but his eyes are serious. “just wondering.”

you swallow hard. “do you?”

his jaw clenches for a second, like he’s fighting something deep.

“i think about you,” he says finally. “every day. every fucking second.”

he exhales softly, leaning in. “and i want all of it, y/n. i want you. forever.”

there was nothing that felt more natural than the way the universe had put you two together. and paul feels that every single every day.

so it’s not surprise he can’t hide his wish to be by your side.

it’s late, and paul is standing in the kitchen, watching you move around his space like you belong there.

and suddenly, he can’t take it anymore.

“move in with me.”

you freeze, blinking. “paul—”

“i mean it.” his voice is soft, but there’s something urgent underneath. “you already spend all your time here. just… stay.”

he steps forward, hands cradling your face. “stay with me,” he murmurs.

how could you say no to that?

paul lahote doesn’t just love you. he owns the feeling—deep in his bones, in every breath, in every look, in every single second he spends with you.

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I am now also writing a Harry Potter fan fic of Draco x OC ^^

If anyone would like to follow on Wattpad, I'd love to be moots there as well! I don't write often, but I do have one book that's ongoing and recent which screenshots are above ^^

"guys I do not condone any of this in real life" "this is fiction" "consent is key. this is only fiction" "murder is bad irl" — I wish fanfic authors didn't feel like they had to clarify this in author's notes or else they might be accused of being abusers or worse (I admit that such disclaimers are also something I personally use for my own stuff because I feel like I had to make it clear). like... people used to not care if an author wrote dead dove fics because people used to understand that ao3 fics are not a reflection of someone's in real life views or morality in any way. people used to understand that fanfics mean what they mean; fan fiction. none of it is real. maybe it's purity culture that normalizes witch hunt and censorship in the past couple years, and therefore authors feel like they have to clarify that just because they write about violence or noncon stuff doesn't mean they're murderers or sex offenders in real life. and I think it sucks that these things (purity and cancel culture?) have made authors feel like they have to apologize for the art they created instead of being proud of their hard work and all the dedication they put into creating these art. artists should not have to feel like they have to apologize for creating art that isn't all rainbow and sunshine. artists should not have to be made to feel ashamed of their own art if it's not all rainbow and sunshine.

I don’t agree with the “you can write noncon and dark fics as long as you make sure your readers get the message that these things are bad” or “you can write noncon and dark fics if it’s your way of coping with your trauma” take either. because writers do not owe you anything. the message writers want to send to their readers — whatever that message may be, if there’s any message or moral of the story for readers to take from the stories at all — is none of your business. why writers write what they write is none of your business. remember “don’t like don’t read”. no one forces you to read anything you don’t like. dark and noncon fics are a form of creative writing and creative writing is a form of art. you can’t pressure artists into creating art that “fit your moral compass” nor can you apply your own moral compass to artists to determine if they can create dark art or not, if their reasoning behind creating dark art passes your moral compass. like… what artists create and why artists create are none of your business. and you don’t get to shame artists for creating art that you hate / art that disgusts you. what you can do is ignore the art because it clearly was not made for you and that’s okay. what isn’t okay is you harassing artists because you don’t like the things they created.

writers, embrace and be proud of your works. as long as all the trigger warnings are tagged properly, you have nothing to apologize for.

Knowing Chishiya isn’t one to openly express his feelings I can totally picture him telling his s/o how he feels about her whenever she’s not aware.

Like she’s sleeping? He’ll be mumbling non stop about how much he loves her.

She’s in another room? He’d be whispering: “come here, I miss you”

She’s staring at the wall contemplating life? “I miss your eyes on me”

She has just woken up and she looks sleepy asf? “God, you look so beautiful”

And he thinks she can’t hear him but she often can and she has the biggest smile on her face every time.

She would pretend to be asleep just so she can hear him saying “I love you” until one day she says it back and he’s like 😦

trans rights are human rights dammit!!!!!

This made me think of Machete being flattened from cuddling or just generally being a dog that looks like he was squished by a boulder like a cartoon

Also I am constantly in tears over Vasco and Machete

Yes I did! Gimmie!

it's cold out there, reblog to give a trans man a cup of soump